


Body English

by Ishmael



Series: Bodies [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, Body Dysphoria, Communication, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, Frottage, Genderqueer Character, Masturbation, Other, POV Sherlock Holmes, Thinky Sex, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishmael/pseuds/Ishmael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You kiss him, steal the words on his tongue and swallow them down so your body will know what your mind is still not ready to hear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body English

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [](http://tartancravat.livejournal.com/profile)[**tartancravat**](http://tartancravat.livejournal.com/) , [](http://coloredink.livejournal.com/profile)[**coloredink**](http://coloredink.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddenlacuna)[**hiddenlacuna**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddenlacuna) for editing, [](http://rubyofkukundu.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://rubyofkukundu.livejournal.com/)**rubyofkukundu** for Britpicking, and everyone that encouraged me to write more of this series.
> 
> This is meant to take place after Body of Evidence and Body Image; it will make more sense if those are read first.

> body English (n.)  
>  a twisting of the body by a player as if to help a ball already hit, rolled, or kicked to travel in the desired direction.

“Sherlock,” John breathes, his voice curling around you as he pulls you onto the bed. He knows how to use his weight to his advantage. The way he can simultaneously be larger and smaller than you is one of your favourite things about him.

Seeing him spread over your sheets still makes your pulse spike, a churning mix of possessiveness and disbelief and lust. It is the last one that bothers you most—how much you have come to rely on something outside yourself. Requiring outside stimulation to stave off boredom is bad enough but this, _this_ is dangerous.

You cover him with your body, ignoring the strange pressure around your heart. Instead you mouth over his jaw and neck with lips and teeth, making him small again by caging him with your legs and arms. He shoves his fingers into your hair and pulls you down. His mouth soft, wet, sour from the milk he drank earlier. You pull away to stare at him, just stare.

John's smile is soft with affection, annoying and endearing at the same time. He looks at you like he cannot see anything else. One teasing hand trails down your shirt buttons. John’s other hand slides over your trousers and he gasps like there’s no air left in the room, a strange noise of pain-shock-pleasure you want to hear again. “Fuck, Sherlock you—you.” His hand moves over the bulge, stroking it in time with unconscious thrusts of his hips. “It feels—” (He doesn't say _real_ , though you are sure he thinks it. He is learning and that pleases you more than it should.)

“You like my cock?” The words are strange in your mouth—you are still not used to talking during sex. You had assumed it dull, stating the obvious aloud, until John. John's reactions are anything but dull so you continue to experiment with frequency, vocabulary, and timing.

He stills, cupping you with only a light touch. “You don’t normally—why?” his voice is soft, hesitant. He still treads carefully around this, unsure of the pitfalls, what he can and cannot ask. What you can and cannot express.

This morning your body made you want to vomit. “Experiment,” you lie, gently latching your teeth over his throat and relishing the sound of his breath forced through his nose. He doesn't ask anything else.

Now he cups you more firmly, exploring the feel of the cock you're wearing. "I like this one," he groans, jerking his hips again. "Less messes in the kitchen."

"That could still be arranged," and oh, the thought of the _noise_ of sweeping the table clear, bending John over it and pushing-pushing-pushing into him until his hips bruise. You will yourself to forget the feeling of waking up in the wrong body and instead focus on the feel of John's stubble scratching your cheek and the warm skin under his buttons.

"Fuck, fuck," John pulls back, scrambling to remove his shirt. You undo his belt and fly but it ends up a tangled mess of half-on clothing. Once the shirt is off he stands up to make quick work of his trousers. The sight of them caught halfway down his thighs makes you surge upward to touch, unable to wait. You press against him, the flat of your front on his back and the flat of your palm on his cock.

His hips shove forward. "Sherlock, Sherlock I want—"

You press forward so he can feel your cock rub against him, not properly against his arse but close enough. "This?"

John makes another noise half in his throat and half in his nose. He barely has the breath to talk. "I want to touch you."  
 _  
Obvious_. Of course. He wants to experience the illusion you've created. You feel your chest push against your binder with each breath and you feel too aware of how you are presenting something you cannot truly be. You turn and walk forward to lean against the wall, staring at the periodic table. John will assume it is for balance.

He shucks his trousers and pants in fumbling haste and steps out of them to press behind you, his cock nudging your arse through your trousers. His right hand presses your hip, his left hand snakes around to grab your cock, the frustration of not being able to truly _feel_ his touch warring with how much you enjoy his reaction to it.

John starts palming your cock and thrusting against you in rhythm, trapping you from two sides. He's a bit low, his hips jerking upward. You want him to fuck you, you want him hot and inside and stretching you as he jerks you off. You want to smash the glass to soothe your anger that it can't happen exactly as you want it to, trapped by this body. 

Then he bites your shoulder, skin and muscle shifting under the sharp pressure, sharp enough you're going to bruise, and the thoughts run right out of your head. His breath is hot on your shoulder blades as it coats your skin. His hands have become clumsy. John makes that noise again, like he's lost all his air, and you ache with the need to be touched.

"Fuck, Sherlock," John pants. " _ _You—__ " he loses whatever train of thought he had when you shift your hips so he makes more contact. You like his nudity, wish you could see it better but have no desire to move, no desire to see your body in the mirror. There's something secure in seeing all of him and remaining clothed yourself, his hands touching the smooth barriers of cloth. You loathe such an irrational response but that makes it no less true. Clothed, there is no question of who you are, you maintain the ambiguity that what his hand feels may or may not be real. Naked, there is no questioning his desire.

John switches hands to masturbate, his knuckles brushing between your legs with every stroke, a tease of inner thigh and groin. He's going to stain your trousers and you don't care, you keep thinking about what this would feel like skin on skin, sliding his cock against you with every desperate jerk of his hips, teasing. That would require a discussion you have no desire to have, an admission of the weaknesses of this body. You want him to touch you, your body pulses with every movement of the false cock you can barely feel.

He stops stroking you to press his palm against your stomach, his every twitch of muscle and exhale against your back and his other hand moving faster and faster, you want to move your hips you want to __feel__ him and then he's coming, hot splatters on your trousers and stuttered breath into your spine, push-push-pushing you toward the wall.

Slumping against you, he sighs "Sherlock," with the hint of question, not sure how to proceed.

You think of the way his mouth shapes your name. Your pulse slams through you, echoing in your fingertips, your groin—a physical chant of _now now now_. But you cannot allow it. Your observations of John's habits made it clear sex should follow a careful progression.

The tap in the adjacent bathroom is running, and you realise John is no longer behind you. You frown, surprised that he is washing himself off so soon. You misread his tone—he was asking you to wait, he was asking for something specific. This is not going to plan. You hover by the door and will your hands not to fidget.

He emerges, hands slightly red from the scrubbing, apologetic smile on his face when he sees your confusion. "Can't be too careful."

"What?"

Two steps and he's back in your space, unabashedly naked. His hands are still slightly damp when they touch your shoulders to steady him as he lifts up to slide his lips against yours. You like the feel of his fingers on the fabric, the soft sound of skin on cotton punctuating his exposure as your bodies press together. John slips his tongue in once, twice, darting teases that make you lean down to chase after it as he pulls away.

"I want to touch your cock," he says with shoulders squared and eyes looking into yours. There's something he wants you to see, some anticipation in his veins you don't yet understand. He just touched it.

Seeing your confusion he steps forward, hands unbuttoning, unzipping your trousers. He cups you, still watching your face. "I want to touch your cock," he says again, emphasising the last word, as he slips his hand into your pants, awkwardly shoving __under__ your packer, resting just above—

"John," you say, because you cannot think, cannot grasp the meaning as it takes you apart, piece by pieces, destroys your plans and your doubts like a gunshot through two windows and the enormity of it blocks your throat up. You look at the way his mouth twitches with worry that he's made a mistake, feel his fingers in your pubic hair, and marvel at this man, this man who surprises you in the best of ways. " _ _Yes__."

His fingers dip down, limited in their motion but reaching far enough to touch and you want it, want his hands on you with an intensity at once frightening and exhilarating. You want him to touch you properly.

"Wait on the bed," you tell him, and his breathing falls apart all over again. "I need to—"

"Right." He finally breaks eye contact as he turns around and the loss of it is strangely palpable.

You spend a few moments grasping the door frame, trying to sort the screaming need inside you and the roiling fear and the voice that whispers what a terrible idea it is, how you'd planned so carefully, each step a slow progression, an exploration that would meticulously counter John's preconceived notions.

You don't care. You cannot abide the thought of waiting any longer.

Efficient, swift motions take care of your shirt and trousers. Your pants are uncomfortably damp and you are glad to dispose of them. You place the packer on the table. You leave the binder on, not wanting to lose the pleasant pressure against your chest. This time you don’t think of how there’s too much baggage, too much risk, too much work. You don’t think of Seb. You think of John’s fingers and how you want them to touch you.

He's watching you, licking his lips, legs slightly apart. As you stalk forward they slide further apart and that's a sight you want to remember and savour, his welcoming thighs splayed wide on your sheets.

But that's not what you want right now. You grab him with more aggression than finesse, tumbling him backwards. He lets out a sharp laugh of surprise, quickly changing to a shuddering inhale as you press your wetness against his thigh. It's warm, you always forget how warm another body is, so used to touching the dead, so used to no hands but your own touching you. 

A kiss with more teeth than tongues, his hands rough in your hair. John rolls you over, looking down with the same face when he calls you fantastic after a deduction. You understand it less in this context but want it all the same.

"I want—" You've never given him such free range before, never openly invited touch like this. His hands slide over you, rough and pushing and it's staggering how badly you'd wanted him to give as well as he takes, to _keep up_ like that first leap across the rooftops.

" _Yes_." You adjust to wrap your legs around him, body slightly curled, so he's leaning over you.

The feel of gun calluses against the soft skin of your stomach makes you buck your hips. His hand slides down and your hands fist into the sheets.

"Yes,” you cry again, desperately wanting to shove his hand down to really _touch_ you but unable to relax your grip. Instead you hook your leg around his hip, forcing your legs further apart.

"Oh god, Sherlock," he moans, dipping his hand lower, lower until he's hit your pubic hair. He teases the skin above your gracilis muscle then slides in, inward where you're humiliatingly wet and you don't care that you are, because he's touching you. His fingers are slick as they tease the edges, slide in maddening circles over you. “Sherlock, your cock," he moans, and hearing him say it again is gratifying in ways you cannot accurately determine right now, but you know you want more. "Is it—is it alright if—”

If you think, the enormity of it will overwhelm you, the idea of it will ruin this moment. He is looking at you with affection and lust and acceptance clear in every muscle of his face. "John," you say, unable to form any other words, and he presses a finger inside.

You’d almost forgotten what it was like, the stretch-slide of someone else inside you. His fingers are blunter, wider than yours and it shouldn’t feel so different but it does, it’s maddening. Your legs spread wider of their own volition and John adds two more fingers and presses in and there is a noise trapped in the back of your throat, desperate and needy like you never thought you’d be. “I want to fuck you,” is what comes out, raw and sharp. 

John’s breath hitches—he wasn’t expecting that. He licks his lips as he thrusts his fingers back in, starting to work them in and out properly

“I will make you come from just my fingers in your arse,” you elaborate, trying not to squirm at the building heat in your abdomen, hands grabbing at his neck, his hair. John swallows noisily, the memory of when you did that last week still fresh in his mind. He shifts the angle and your breath escapes in a sudden burst. “Then I’ll bend you over and fuck you.”

“Relentless,” you say as he picks up the pace. “You’ll have bruises on your hips from my hands,” you moan as your body starts jerking out of your control. You run your hands over his skin, the wiry hair and imperfect bumps and the sweat and the heat. You think of how he'd look, pressed against the wood of the kitchen table, open and thighs trembling.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John pushes in harder, faster, unconsciously mimicking the rhythm he'll want you to set, eyes sliding closed as he imagines it. 

You tug at his hair, distracting yourself from how taut your stomach muscles have become. “I'll shove you onto the table, I'll—” Your body starts curling inward, breath ragged. “I'll dump everything onto the floor and push you down. I’ll hold you open and I won’t stop, I won't stop.” His fingers keep pistoning in-and-out, in-and-out the slick sound of it as repulsive as it is arousing and he’s rubbing your insides with just the right frequency and you're gasping, shuddering with orgasm. You feel your body pulsing around him, trying to hold him there and chase the fading sensation as your legs weakly clutch him. He waits until you're done twitching to pull out, a steadying hand on your thigh. He's panting as if he has come again despite being in his refractory period, breath hot on your shoulder.

“I—Sherlock, I—” One hand touches your face, your jaw and he is looking at you again, capturing you in the dark blues and soft browns of his iris. 

You kiss him, steal the words on his tongue and swallow them down so your body will know them when your mind is still not ready to hear. Something inside you has come loose, the coil of doubt and fear along your spine loosening its grip. You find yourself not caring about the danger you know comes with such sentiment.

"Are you sleeping tonight?" he asks as he gives one more quick kiss. He pulls away to hover on the edge of the bed, giving room for you to reposition yourself more comfortably. His hand is warm on your thigh. 

"Yes," you say, its echo of earlier making your skin shiver. The distraction of sex is fading, the sense of your body's wrongness edging back, but it is manageable. The thought of him pressing against you is pleasing, not nauseating.

John stands, stretches. You watch his muscles shift under his skin. He smiles, says, "Good," with a quick nod and leaves to brush his teeth. His shoulders are straight, body confident in a way he hasn't been since you started having sex. Here is the John you've been missing. Part of you whispers that he will still falter, he will still fail, but you ignore it. The evidence supports otherwise. John, the outlying piece of data.


End file.
